


Advice is mandatory

by crazy_echo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, maybe crack, not really graphic but violence, not to take seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazy_echo/pseuds/crazy_echo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never take advice from a drunken shrink.</p><p>Now betaed by the great inherent-rhythm</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advice is mandatory

**Author's Note:**

> It was in the middle of the night when I wrote that. It's for amusement only. Comments are welcome.

 

 

 

If he had known what kind of mess he would end up in, he never would have listened to his friend from uni.  No matter what, psychology stays psychology, and John stays away.

 

And considering how much trouble came with his first blog, he should never have started a second.

 

~~~

 

"JOHANNA W. S. HOST, new bestselling author, discovered that what had started as a new romance blog had ended up as one of the most sought-after love story series of this decade – the publishers were falling over themselves in attempts to get this talented new star to write for their houses -  and continue the series as soon as possible."

 

 ~~~

 

 _Why did those shrinks always tell him to write about it?_ he wondered.  It rarely ended in anything but disaster.  But fine, alright: that this nonsense had ended up on the World Wide Web for all to read was his fault, and his alone.  He made a note never to forget to check the privacy settings again, and that was that.

 

Besides, it was only a matter of time before all those maniacs and fangirls found out that Johanna W. S. Host didn’t exist, and that the “hottest romance ever” was written by a middle-aged doctor with PTSD and some very serious denial issues when it came to attractive, clever, married-to-their-work , and very, _very_ male (which was the point at which it all started, of course) consulting detectives.

 

~~~

 

…. “I’m too old to question my orientation!  I was perfectly happy with being attracted to women. _Just_ women.  I mean, seriously, if it were only dreams that could be explained, fine.  But daydreams? That’s not even unconscious anymore.”

 

Thinking back, he may have sounded slightly hysterical; being tipsy didn’t make it any better.  

 

That buddy of his, back in uni, who later got his doctorate in psychology, and who he should never have listened to, replied in soothing tones.  “Just imagine that one of you is a woman.  Write it out – write about things from ‘her’ perspective, or about ‘her’ – and it’ll help you get those fantasies out of your mind.  Then you can be done with it without unnecessary discomfort.”

 

That he ended up following that advice may have helped his overactive subconscious, but, in the end, it caused more problems than it resolved.

 

Considering that Sherlock was just unimaginable as a woman…  Oh.  Well, now his orientation wasn’t the only thing in question.

 

~~~

 

Every time Sherlock dragged him out to a crime scene, Donovan made lewd gestures and Anderson looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or be sick, but the worst was Lestrade.  Though they had a solid camaraderie bordering on friendship, the poor DI now laboured under the delusion that John harbored not only a crush on Sherlock but also the secret desire to be “bent over a desk by the ruggedly handsome silver fox,” which was just the stupid idea of a fictive female doctor who hoped to make her secret crush jump her.

 

Unfortunately, in addition to the whole of New Scotland Yard, a minor government official also seemed to have followed a certain fictitious and nonexistent fantasy world.  One, of course, in which the female doctor “admired her flat-mate’s strikingly handsome, fiendishly intelligent, every-mother’s-wish-for-a-son-in-law and perfect gentleman of a brother – who made her knees go weak when first they touched. ”

 

While the DI tended to get rather flustered by the nonexistent sexual attraction, Mycroft went overboard: within a month of writing the damned thing, John had received three bouquets of red roses and half a dozen dinner invitations – all of which he declined, naturally, but that didn’t stop the Holmes brother from sending out more.

 

It finally reached the point where John got so paranoid about sleek black cars that every time he saw one he just started running in the opposite direction.  He was a soldier – he knew when retreat was the wisest choice.

 

~~~

 

By now, absolutely everybody that knew him seemed to have already figured out that that stupid blog had sprung from the depths of his imagination.  Everybody but one Sherlock Holmes, that is, who would never waste his time reading romantic fiction.  He wasn’t likely to find out any time soon, either, because absolutely nobody would mention that stupidity when Sherlock was around. John supposed he should be grateful for that.

 

The only truths in this written nightmare were that he was deeply attracted to Sherlock Holmes (and more emotionally attached to his flat mate than he was willing to admit), and that he seemed to have a thing for jealous lovers.

 

Completely and abjectly mortified by the mess he had gotten himself into, John started refusing to leave  221b Baker Street, which led to a slightly calmer John and a very irritated flat-mate.

 

Three days of uninterrupted solitude and safe haven ended with a very impossible-to-ignore knocking on his door.

 

Opening it tentatively, he found himself looking into Sally Donovan’s brown eyes.   “Please tell me this isn’t another ‘drugs bust,’” he sighed wearily.

 

“You need to come,” she said, and all but dragged him out of the flat.  “It’s Sherlock – he’s going to kill the ponce!”  She seemed too agitated even to remember to call Sherlock ‘freak.’

 

“The _what_?” John asked, drawn up short just feet from the door.

 

“Just come _on_ ,” she insisted, and pulled him down the stair after her.

 

Thanks to the breakneck speed with which sergeant Donovan drove, John hardly had time to question what was happening.  All he could figure out from earlier was that Sherlock was having a physical row with Mycroft, which in itself was rather strange for brothers who usually fought only verbally.  He supposed he should be more worried, but all he felt was a peculiar sense of detachment.

 

The shouting could be heard from the entrance. One would assume that in a police station a fight would be broken up in no time, but here it was clear that no one dared go near Lestrade’s office, from which the noise was emanating.

 

Sally apparently had no such qualms: she marched him right up the door, opened it, and shoved him inside.

 

The picture that greeted him left him kind of speechless.  The first thing he saw was a rumpled and handcuffed DI Lestrade, who seemed quite happy to be forgotten for the moment.  Then there was Sherlock, looking like nothing so much as an angry cat, and his older brother, whose clothing appeared to be missing several buttons and who sported a black eye and a split lip.  There was a desk between them, but it didn’t seem to be doing a lot of good.

 

 “What the _hell_ are you doing?” John snapped, instantly in captain mode.

 

All attention focused on him.

 

“Actually, you know what? I don’t even want to know.” He held out a hand.  “Give me the keys.  Now.”

 

Catching the thrown keys without a problem, he freed the Detective Inspector, who refused to look him in the eyes, and helped him up.

 

“Greg, take Mycroft and go get him an ice pack or something for his eye.  And don’t you dare move!” he hissed at Sherlock, who had the look of attempting to attack Mycroft once his back was turned.

 

Watching with hawk-like severity –and ready to get in between the brothers if necessary – the doctor waited for the others to leave and checked that the door was fully closed before rounding on his flat-mate. 

 

“Have you lost your _mind_?” he demanded.  “This is a police station, Sherlock!  You’re at a police station, and you’ve committed crimes not only against a police officer but also under the eyes of at least a dozen others!  What the hell were you thinking?”

 

Obviously taken aback, the taller peered down at the doctor as if he were the insane one, or perhaps a vaguely distasteful experiment.

 

“I cuffed the Detective Inspector, but beyond that I never laid hands on him.   And Mycroft,” he scoffed.  “Mycroft won’t press charges, of course.  That would only upset mummy – not to mention draw attention to himself, which he tries to avoid at all costs.  And, quite frankly, he _did_ have it coming this time.”

 

“And what, pray tell, has he done that would warrant your resorting to physical harm?”

 

“Harassed you,” was the mumbled answer.

 

“Could you repeat that?”

 

“He harassed you!”

 

John looked at Sherlock like he was speaking another language.  Rolling his eyes, the younger shouted, “The flowers, the dinner invitations, the kidnapping attempts!”

 

"You did that –” John points at the closed door, in Mycroft’s general direction “—just because your brother went a bit overboard in his misconceptions?"

 

 “No, you idiot!” Sherlock groaned.

 

“Then explain it so that even an idiot would understand you, since we can’t all be geniuses.”

 

“Indeed we can’t.  But then again, that seems to be the type that makes your ‘knees go week,” the other spat maliciously.

 

Understanding dawned. _That stupid blog!_  John blushed furiously and stuttered, “No. No. That’s just a stupid piece of fiction!”

 

“More like repressed wishes,” Sherlock returned icily.

 

“That’s not true!”

 

“JOHANNA W.S. HOST a rather unimaginative anagram for JOHN H. WATSON, don’t you think?  Come on, John, it wouldn’t take any great intelligence to realize you’d written that!”

 

"But that’s –   Wait a moment.  When did you even read it, anyway?"

 

"I was going through the unclosed cases on Donovan's desk.  There was a printout in between."

 

“But it’s just fantasy,” John insisted.  “There’s no truth in it!”

 

“So you don’t want to be ‘bent over a desk by the ruggedly handsome silver fox’?”

 

“God, no!” said the doctor, paling.

 

“And you don’t want a deep and fulfilling relationship with my oh-so-perfect brother?”

 

“I never said that.  But he seems to be just like you –”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“—in that he’s completely unable to discern between fiction and reality!”

 

Still looking absolutely exasperated, but not nearly as angry as before, Sherlock put on an air of disinterest and asked, “So it’s safe to assume that you’re also not in love with me?”

 

John opened his mouth, found he had nothing to say to that, closed it, and began to grow flustered all over again.

 

 “So it's true then.”  It wasn’t a question, and John knew the game was up.

 

John sighed.  “That’s actually the reason this mess exists,” he admitted softly.

 

Not really knowing what to say, the two of them simply stared at one another.

 

“Look, I never meant to create such a mess, alright?  Nobody was supposed to read this, but I messed the setting up and it ended up public.  It was just supposed to be for me to sort out my own head, not drag everyone else down with me.”

 

“But you do indeed love me?”

 

“Yes.  Yes, god help me, I do.  I’m sorry for the inconvenience – I’ll just have to get over it.”

 

Sherlock made a considering noise.  “What if,” he began slowly, “I don’t want you to?”

 

 “Sorry, what?”

 

“I don’t want you to get over it,” the detective repeated patiently.

 

John blinked rapidly, surprised.  “So… it’s okay, even though you’re ‘married to your work’ and I’m not a ‘curvy brunette with a killer intellect?’”

 

“Yes,” he replied simply, then seemed to come to himself.  “Right.  Are we done here?” he asked briskly.

 

“What? Well, yes.  I mean, I suppose so.” John looked around the office and found no overwhelming reason so stay any longer.

 

“Good.  Because,” Sherlock bent down, lips hovering at that ear, “I think I’d like to kiss you, doctor, and I don’t really think we need all these eyes on us.”

 

John blinked some more.  “Oh.  Right.  Absolutely.  I’d, um.  I’d like that, too,” John replied, happy if still reeling a bit, and allowed the taller to take his hand and lead him out of the station.

 

~~~

 

_Congratulations on your new relationship. -MH_

 

 _Stay away from John, or a black eye will be the least of your concerns_.  -SH

 

~~~

 

"To shitty matchmaking skills!” laughed the silver fox.

 

"If I’d known that Sherlock would get that irritable, I wouldn’t have 'pursued' the good doctor quite so…ardently."

 

"Funny that it didn't seem to be a problem until he thought that John could be seriously interested in someone else."

 

"It's all about the facts with Sherlock."

 

"If you say so, oh dream-of-every-mother-in-law."

 

"I certainly hope yours will feel the same way.”

 

 

 

END

 


End file.
